The shepherd looked at the drizzling sky, at the wood, at the steward's soaked clothing, thought, and made no reply.
“The whole summer's been the same . . .” sighed Meliton. “Bad for the muzhiks, and for the quality no consolation. . . .”
Again the shepherd looked at the sky, again he thought, and then began, with pauses, as if chewing each word.
“The whole world goes the same way. . . . You can expect no good.”
“But how are things with you?” asked Meliton. He lighted his cigarette. “Have you seen any woodcock broods in Artamonoff's clearing?”
The shepherd was silent. Again he looked at the sky and about him, thought, and blinked his eyes. . . . It was plain that he ascribed no small weight to his own words, and to increase their value delayed them with a certain solemnity. His glance was keen, with the keenness of the old and grave; and the upturned nostrils and saddle-shaped depression in his nose expressed cunning and contempt.
“No, it seems, I saw none,” he answered. “Our gamekeeper, Artemka, says that he saw one brood near Pustoshka on Elijah's Day. I expect he lied. Birds are scarce.”
“Yes, brother, scarce! . . . Everywhere scarce. Shooting's hardly worth while. . . . There's no
